PB&J Dreams

At 12, I never dreamed about the MLB or sports cars. I dreamed about 10-hour bus rides and PB&Js. I fantasized about rolling through small town after small town chasing the big leagues. I longed more to be a “Minor League Grinder” than to be the guy playing under the lights in the big apple.

At 13, despite being as idealistic as a child can be, I knew I’d never make it to "The Show". But I had an unrelinquishing belief in myself, so I figured I’d be able to cling to it - stay in baseball as long as possible. After all, my favourite movies at the time were Bull Durham and Rudy.

Now, boy, life changes. And so do dreams.

So instead of dreaming about playing in those small towns, when I dropped out of university at 20, my fantasy shifted to living out of some beat-down pickup truck and coaching small-time college baseball. Again, just clinging onto the game.

At 21, I made my first paycheck. I was living "my dream" - making a living in baseball.  But that didn't stop me.

At 22, wide-eyed and arrogant, I dreamed of coaching minor-league baseball - instructing some freshly drafted prospect on a back field lost amongst the sea of uniforms. I even interviewed for a few of these "dream jobs".

At 23, I got closer than ever to these dreams only to be knocked down and my sense of purpose shattered.

At 24, I've drifted in and out of my career ambitions ultimately coming out west to fulfill parts of my childhood fantasies. Unsurprisingly, I continue to conjure new dreams every night only to awaken to the same feelings that have haunted me since I was young – a longing for something “more”.

At 24 and 11 months, when I watch the sunrise from the side of a road I’ve never been on and breathe in the crisp air of a spring morning, my dreams become all but absurd.

At 25, I’ll be livin’ more and dreaming less.